His parka was sodden, but wearable. He slipped it on and then carefully made his way out of the emergency ward through a back entrance. If, as he suspected, a Boston police officer was one of the dealers, no place was safe. He had hidden the video receiver as securely as time would allow, but there was always the chance someone would stumble on it.
It was likely that two of Gambone's men had survived. By now the docks would be crawling with men looking for him or his body. Still, he had to find a way back. The weapons mission-months of planning and work-was blown to hell regardless. He would have to answer for that But without the tape the sacrifice of his time and usefulness was absolutely futile.
He took a cab to the Salvation Army and bought a set of well-worn work clothes, gloves, an oil-stained overcoat, and a woolen cap. Next he stopped at a package store for a bottle of cheap wine. In a nearby alley he sprinkled some on his coat and placed the bottle conspicuously in his pocket. Some carefully smeared grit, a change in posture to that of a beaten man, and he was ready. The transformation, which he checked in the mirror of a gas-station restroom, was striking. He hadn't shaved in two days as it was, and the hollow fatigue around his eyes was genuine.
He hoped no one would take much notice of a derelict wandering about the East Boston docks. At least not until he had his hands on that video.
Unwilling to return to his room, he checked into a seedy hotel to await the night. As he lay down on the musty mattress, he finally began to appreciate the heavy toll the events on the dock had taken on him.
His headache was constant, but manageable. His legs were leaden, although that feeling, too, he could cope with. what disturbed him most, and was beginning to frighten him was a bandlike tightness constricting his chest. He endured several fits of coughing, then sank off into a fitful sleep.
NOrth awoke and fell back to sleep twice before he was finally able to leave the hotel and take a cab to a spot near the docks. The tightness in his chest was constant now, and every breath was an effort. He moved toward the lot where the receiver was hidden, and then he froze. There were men everywhere-two that he saw inside the fence, another across the road, not far from the receiver, and one more just cruising in a car with its headlights off. Biting almost through his lower lip to keep from coughing, North backed away and headed toward East Boston center.
He would have to wait for things to cool down; a day, maybe more.
Just over a block away, he stopped and leaned against a lamppost, winded. It was crazy, he thought, During a recent screening at Plan B, he had held his breath for more than two minutes. Now he couldn't seem to get enough air. He forced himself to move on, but again had to stop.
This time, without warning, he began to cough. And for several minutes, he could do nothing else.
'You all right, buddy?'
North, who was doubled over, looked up. A derelict, dressed in clothes similar to his own, was looking at him with concern.
'I… I'm fine, thanks. A cold. That's all.'
'Could I have a hit of that?'
'Huh? Oh, sure. Here.'
North handed over his bottle. The man took a long swig, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and headed off.
Slowly, North made his way down the street. By the time he reached the downtown area he was doubled over again, coughing mercilessly.
White Memorial, this is MedEvac helicopter. Nurse Specialist Burns speaking.
We are enroute to your facility from Interstate Four-five with a Priority One motor vehicle accident victim. Male, age forty-four.
Driver and only occupant.
Multiple injuries. Definite left fractured femur. Definite right fractured forearm. No definite head or neck injuries. Hypotensive at seventy by Doppler, with no E.K.G is sinus tach actate IVs times two are running wide open.
MAST trousers are in place. Repeat, this is Priority One traffic.
Our E.T.A at your helipad is twelve minutes…
Priority One-immediately life-threatening illness or injury. The words, as always, sent a surge of energy through the White Memorial Hospital emergency room.
Priority One another chance to validate WMH's reputation as the finest trauma center in Boston, in the state, and according to many, in the world.
Before the radio report was complete, the E.R. team was in action.
Arms folded, Eric Najarian stood alone to one side of the gleaming receiving area, savoring the immense pride and confidence of the technicians, nurses, and residents as they prepared for battle that February morning.
The image of the emergency room as a feudal castle under siege had first arisen in Eric's mind during his second year of residency, and had grown in complexity and color over the two years that followed.
The technicians-E.K.G, respiratory, and laboratory-had become the support troops and intelligence agents, gathering information and transporting arms and other gear to the militia, the nurses. The interns and junior residents were the officers-the lieutenants and captains.
And above them all, watching more than doing-waiting for the moment when the encounter with death hung on a single major decision, on one brilliant tactic-stood the lord of the castle, the trauma team leader.
Over the years of his apprenticeship at White Memorial, Eric had driven himself to the limit with thoughts of the day when he would hold that position.
Now, six months into his tenure as one of the two chief residents on the emergency service, he drove himself even harder.
He had grown up in Watertown, not ten miles from the hospital, and was the first in his family even to attend college, let alone graduate school. He had started way at the back of the pack, but after eight years of schooling, every one of them as a full scholarship student, and five more years of the most grueling residency, he was finally beginning to make his mark. And Reed Marshall, the other chief resident, notwithstanding, there were those who now regarded Eric as perhaps the best that White Memorial had ever trained-the best in a hospital that had spawned 150 years of the finest physicians anywhere.
Tern Dillard, the charge nurse on the shift, finished issuing a set of orders to her staff and then spotted Eric.
'We're set for him in Four,' she said, crossing to him 'I told you we'd get one today,' he responded, smiling. 'I want the crowd in there kept to a minimum, Tern, okay? Have Dierking get in a CVP line and handle the peritoneal lavage. I don't want the other two yet, and I don't want to have to worry. June Feldman can meet the chopper and do the intubation if necessary. What did they say the guy's pressure was?'
'Seventy.'
'Hmmm Eric stroked the mustache he had grown and shaved off half a dozen times in the past three years.
He had no particular desire to have one, but there were times when he felt his authority was compromised by his looking years younger than his age, which on that day was a month shy of thirty-one.
'What are you thinking about?' Tern Dillard asked.
'Your eyes,' he said absently.
'I wish.'
It would be a surprise, she was thinking, if Eric Najarian ever thought about much of anything except medicine. During her nearly ten years as an E.R. nurse, she had seen all manner of residents come and go-flakes and philosophers; insecure jerks who needed to verbally abuse nurses; brilliant thinkers who came unglued at crunch time; soft-spoken young women to whom she would not hesitate to entrust her life. But this man was one of a kind. When he wasn't working killer shifts in the E.R he was in the library or the lab. If the E.R. was backed up at the end of his shift, he would pitch in and play intern for as many hours as it took to catch up.
